


A new life

by AmyLooWho



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Mention - Freeform, Other, Suicide, Two - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 11:00:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2385959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmyLooWho/pseuds/AmyLooWho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm Wilder is kidnapped. This sets off a chain of unfortunate events that culminates in a new life, new name for himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A new life

Malcolm, Mal, Wilder woke up slowly. His head throbbed and the room he was in seemed to swim before his opened eyes; which he quickly shut again.

He shook his head and immediately realized that was a mistake; it felt thick and wrapped in cotton. He raised a hand to stop his still moving head. Two things came to his senses at once: there was a lump and a chain rattled too close for comfort for him.

His hand explored the lump. It was large and he felt what he could only surmise was dried blood. He chanced opening just one eye and noticed the room didn't swim as much if he only looked at half of it.

The room was small and surprisingly clean. A light bulb in the middle of the ceiling was on. His brain registered he was sitting on a bed. It wasn't lumpy. He moved and again he heard a chain rattle. Looking down, his other eye opened as they grew wide. His left wrist had a handcuff on it and the chain he kept hearing was attached to the cuff.

“Well, well, well. I see Mr. Wilder has returned to the land of the living.”

A woman's voice sounded to the right of him. He turned, as best he could, towards the voice and he saw her.

What was her name again? His still fuzzy brain tried to remember. It started with a “J”. Jennifer. Jasmine. No, it sounded more masculine. Jamesina.

Jamesina Moriarty sat at a little round table on one of two folding chairs placed at the table. She was sitting back, her right arm leaning on the table. Cold blue eyes studied him as he sat there.

Mal tried to smile, but really, his groggy brain was slowly trying to figure out why he was here. Why Jamesina … Jamesina Moriarty had him in this room.

As if she could read his mind, Jamesina spoke again. “Don't worry, Mr. Wilder. I'm not going to kill you …,” her voice trailed off and Mal swore he could hear the unspoken word “yet” at the end of the sentence.

“I have money,” his voice croaked, his mouth was dry, his tongue didn't want to work. Had he been drugged /and/ hit on the head?

“I’m not interested in your money,” she said slowly though Mal had the impression she wanted to snap at him.

“Then what are you interested in? Sex? You didn't have to kidnap me and cuff me to the bed for that. Unless you're into that type of thing.”

Jamesina's nostrils flared as she huffed at his words. Standing up quickly, she crossed the small room quickly and slapped him. His head snapped to the side, and pain, more than he would have felt otherwise, exploded in his face.

“Your father has been informed that his only son and heir has been kidnapped. If he wants you back, he'll do what I want.”

Mal grew quiet. He wasn't sure his father would do anything to ensure his safety. The last time they'd spoken, they'd argued about Troy. Troy was his twin brother, but his father didn't acknowledge him. Despite that fact, his father still expected Mal to look after him. Mal had left to go to London, breaking ties with everyone but his step-mom Jillian in the process.

“Oh, don't worry,” she said casually and made her way to the door. “He has agreed. It's going to take him a while, so you'll be my … guest .. for the time being.”

With those parting words, Jamesina left the room, the door slammed behind her.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Taking Garland Wilder a while actually translated to four weeks, three days, and seventeen hours. Mal wasn't mistreated. Wasn't beaten. He just wasn't allowed to leave, and he had someone who watched him at all times, even when he peed.

He barely saw Jamesina during that time. Just glimpses. Once or twice she would have dinner with him. Talk about everything but what his father was doing for her. But always there was that promise: “I won't kill you …,” and that yet was still unspoken. Every morning for the last week or so, he would wake up surprised that he was still alive.

The last day he was with Jamesina, she came to his room. Dressed up quite nicely, an extremely pleased look on her face.

“I will be meeting with your father today. He has done what I needed. You shall be free by this evening.”

With that, she turned and left. The bodyguard was actually nicer this time: letting him pee by himself that day.

True to her word, that evening, she came and escorted him personally to the sleek black limousine that would send him back to his home, his father, his mother, his life.

His life … He leaned back in the seat of the limo and closed his eyes. He felt a pang of deep pain in his heart. Little Bird. Dalen. He hadn't been able to contact him, though he did think of him while in captivity. If only Dalen and he were both telepaths, he'd be able to let Dalen he was alright, not to worry.

Too soon, he was home. On the steps, in front of the house, there stood his mother, Jillian. Step-mother. She was married to his father, but was not his mother by blood. He still loved her though and he was touched she was meeting him at the door.

Slowly, he stepped out of the limousine. He didn't spare his captor a last glance; his focus was solely on the woman in front of him. He didn't even pause to admire her beauty, like he usually did. He enveloped her into a hug, breathing in deeply her flowery perfume.

Lifting his head, he looks into Jillian's blue eyes. “Where is he?” He asks simply. With no words, only jerky motions, Jillian indicated his father's study.

Grimly, he squares his shoulders and marches through the front door. Jillian follows, gently closing it behind them. She didn't spare a glance at Jamesina who drove away.

Nervousness radiated from Jillian. From the way she twisted the strand of pearls around her neck to the staccato sound of her heels upon the marble floor in the foyer. Mal stopped in front of his father's study door, looking at his mother, he shook his head, indicating she shouldn't come in with him; he needed to talk to his father alone. She seemed to understand and went to her sitting room. He watched her walk away and then entered the study, without knocking first.  
Garland sat at the large oak desk his father and his father's father had had before him. It would be Mal's when his old man died. His father's elbows were on top of the desk, chin resting in his hands. His gray green eyes were rimmed with red. Mal couldn't tell if he had actually been crying or from lack of sleep. The man gave his son a weary smile.

“I did it. 'Lost' millions of dollars in the account of one Godfrey Norton.” His voice was gravelly, full of emotion, but one emotion stood out the most: Fear.

There was a sharp intake of breath and a shout. It took a moment for them both to realize it was Mal who was doing the shouting.

“What were you thinking!? /Godfrey Norton/!? Do you realize what you've done to me? To mom!? Especially to her? Are you an idiot?”

Garland stared up at his son. Bleakness written all over his face. “I had to do it, son. For you. Jillian would never forgive me if I had let you die.”

Mal sad heavily in one of the polished leather chairs in front of his father's desk. “You cooperated for Jillian's sake? Not because of a father's love for his son?” He whispered, staring at his father.

His father hesitated, afraid of expressing his true feelings. “Ninety-nine percent for Jillian.” And there was that. His one and only admission that he did love his son, even if it was a little.

Mal sighed heavily. “What do we do now?” He needed to make this right. If it hadn't been for him, his father wouldn't have had to do what he did.

Garland shook his head. “What's done is done. I have a plan. But neither you nor your mother need to know what that is. Now you have to leave. Comfort your mother. Godfrey Norton, by this time, has figured out what has happened.” His voice shook as he said the words, his stomach clenched with the dread that he was feeling.

“Dad …,” Mal's voice faded away as he saw the look on his father's face. He knew that look; knew it was useless to argue with him. He'd try again in the morning. He'd go to Jillian, comfort her as best he could, and then after a night's sleep everything would look different, he was sure of it.  
Getting up out of the chair, he goes to the study door. Pausing as he half-turns to look once more at his father.

“Thank you. No matter what, or who you did it for, you kept me alive.”

With those words, he was gone.

Garland stared at the door for a few minutes. Standing up, he too left the study and made his way to the guest suite. It would be there that he would enact his plan. He entered the en-suite of the guest room, closing that door behind him.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mal went to the sitting room that was a part of his parents' bedroom. She was slumped, like a discarded rag doll, in one of the large, comfortable chairs. A wine bottle sat on the floor; it was empty. Her wine glass had fallen from her slack fingers. She had probably passed out drunk. Jillian hadn't drunk any type of alcohol since he was a child of five. She didn't even start drinking again when they found out about Troy.

“Jillian?” He asked softly. Immediately, her eyes opened. A soft shine of tears made her dark blue eyes even darker. She sat up and collapsed into him, her face buried against his shoulder.

“You're here,” she cried, her voice thick. “I had thought everything was a dream, but that horrid, horrid woman did release you as she promised.” She pulls back a bit, her elegant little hand cups his chin, touching the beard that had grown there. “The least she could have done was let you shave before you were dropped off.”

He had to laugh. No matter what, Jillian always did like him clean shaven. He runs a hand over her beautiful platinum blonde hair. It made her look like an angel even when the highly detailed coiffure had come undone and hung around her shoulders; like it did now.

“I just wanted to leave as soon as possible. I was anxious to see you,” he smiled gently at her. In truth, Jamesina hadn't given him the option of a shave. As soon as the work was done, she had marched him to the car and then the car had sped home.

“Come on, mom. Let's get you to the bedroom.” He scoops her up into his arms, one arm under her knees, the other supporting her shoulders and neck. She looked so fragile as she clung to him to make sure she didn't topple.

Walking the few feet to the bedroom, he set her down on the bed. Rummaging through her dresser drawers, he found her favorite nightgown and handed it to her.

“I'll go to the sitting room until you're ready to be tucked in.” He gave a small chuckle and turned to leave. This was the opposite of their bedtime ritual from when he was a little boy. It felt odd being a parent to his parent, but he knew she needed some sort of structure right now.

“Thank you, Malcolm, Mal,” she said softly, turning her back to him in preparation of getting undressed and into her nightgown.

He paused at the door, turned to get a quick sneak peek at her. She rarely ever called him “Mal”, to her, he was always “Malcolm”. He smiled, “You’re welcome, Mom.” And then he went out the door, waited for her to change.

Jillian Wilder sighed and undressed. She did her nighttime ablutions, and finally was ready to be “tucked in” by her adult son. She sat in the bed, the bedclothes were up to her chin and she called Mal's name. He came through the door so quickly, she thought he might have been standing on the other side, doorknob in hand.

Mal walked over to the side of the bed, smiled down at her, and kissed her forehead lightly. “Prayers!” And before she could say anything, he recited:

“Angels east and angels west  
Angels north and south  
Do your best  
To watch over my Mama  
While she rests.  
Amen.”

“You did well, son,” she patted his cheek. She nestled among the pillows, the sheet, the quilt. Her eyes closed and she yawned.

“Good night. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” he said in response; kissed her head one more time. She was asleep, or she was faking sleep. Either way, Mal tiptoed out of the room and went back to his father's study. He knocked on the door and when he received no answer, he tried to open the door, but found it was locked. Garland was probably in there sorting things out. He'd leave him alone. He went to his own room and went to bed. Sleeping, or semi-sleeping, until the morning.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jillian's shrill scream woke him in the morning. He stumbled out of his bed, almost fell flat on his face as he was twisted in the sheets. It was something short of a miracle that he was able to get out of the sheets as quickly as he could. He ran to where she was: the guest bathroom. The door was closed, she was on her knees, a hand on the doorknob, tears streaked down her cheeks.

“Mom?” He put his hand on hers, and found her skin to be icy. “Mom.” He said louder as she didn't respond right away.

“Your .. father,” she managed to gasp out before fresh tears and fresh sobs wracked her frame.

Gently, he removed her hand from the doorknob, and helping her up, he walked her to the guest bed. He sat her on it and she fell over on her side, still crying. Mal had a feeling he knew what awaited him behind that bathroom door, but still he went to the door, he opened it, and looked in.

His nose wrinkled at the stench that greeted him. Then his eyes widened. His father was in the bathtub, the water red, his wrists and forearms sliced good and deep. He knew his father was dead. Could tell by the look on his face, the odd color of his skin, the stench. But still he went. Still he reached out. Still he put two fingers against his father's neck to check for a pulse. He closed his eyes, tried not to breathe anymore, shook his head, and quickly made his way back to the bedroom and his mother.

By now, her crying had subsided. She sat up, her eyes glossy, a dazed look on her face. Her mouth moved for several seconds before sound came.

“Is he .. He is …,” she couldn't say the words.

“Yes, he's dead,” Mal said. His voice as compassionate as he could muster. He died a little bit as Jillian winced at his words.  
They called the police. They came quickly. The head coroner, a friend of the family, came and took charge of Garland's body. It was a standard, straightforward thing. Suicide was never pretty, but it had to be dealt with. And this was dealt with swiftly and as quietly as possible.

The funeral came and went. Many attended it. Friends, family, clients. Everyone. Including three Mal had hoped would stay away: Jamesina Moriarty (though no one but him saw her), Cavan Moriarty (Jamesina's father) who was with Godfrey Norton.

Moriarty and Norton were polite to Jillian; both men were solicitous and assured her they'd be there if she needed them. To him, they too were polite, uncertainty made them play their cards close to their vests, but he knew they were wondering if he knew what his father had done and the true reason for his suicide.

Through the weeks, Mal thought of calling Dalen. But whenever he was out of Jillian's sight, she'd fall apart. He had to stay, be strong for her. But the more he tried to help, the more he tried to be her rock, something was wrong, and he didn't know how to fix it. Godfrey Norton was “helping” her, but that just did not seem right, and after a while, Jillian was too scared to answer his calls, to see him in person.

The one morning, six months after his father's death, he came into Jillian's room. She had slept for most of the morning and for that Mal was grateful. Once more he'd had to play “Jillian's unwell, she'll talk to you when she can” with Godfrey and he was not in the best of moods.

He approached her bed, and shook her shoulder. That was when he saw the bottles on the bedside table; when the shock of her cold skin hit him.

“No! Jillian!” He screamed and called 911. They came. They pronounced her dead, and another funeral to go to. The same family, the same friends, the same three personae non gratae.

After all was said and done, he sold off what he could: the house, the cars, the art. Most of the money went to Godfrey Norton who was demanding his money back. He hid most of the money, along with the trust his grandmother had given him. Then, through friends he had made while in London, and elsewhere, he changed his named, his look (temporarily) and he walked away from his old life. Making a new life and a new name for himself.

Out went Malcolm Wilder.  
In came Thaddeus O'Hara.


End file.
